report.”
“What missing person’s report?” Joanna demanded.
“On Clete’s mother-Alice Rogers.”
“She’s missing?”
“Evidently. According to the family, she drove to Sierra Vista yesterday afternoon to have dinner with her daughter and son-in-law, Susan and Ross Jenkins. Ross owns Fort Apache Motors, the Chrysler dealership on Fry Boulevard. According to the daughter, Alice left their place around eight-thirty, but she never made it home. At least, that’s the way it looks so far. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there was also a problem earlier at noontime between Susan Jenkins and her brother.”
Joanna cut in. “I know about that. Mayor Rogers himself called to give me a full report.”
Frank Montoya groaned. “Which was probably none too complimentary regarding yours truly.”
“Right. Clete couldn’t understand why you didn’t arrest her. I’ve been wondering about that myself. If the woman was doing property damage, why didn’t you?”
“Because they were
“No.”
“No surprises there,” Montoya continued. “I’ve worked with the man long enough to know that when it comes to points of view, he has only one-his. I can also tell you that Clete Rogers doesn’t exactly exude sweetness and light. By the time brother and sister finished bitching one another out in the middle of the restaurant, I had two choices. I could either arrest them both or let them off the hook. It was a judgment call, Joanna. Considering the current political climate, I chose the latter. I sent Susan Jenkins on her way. Told her to go home and cool off. She didn’t, however. Instead, she went over to her mother’s house looking for her. My guess is she planned to raise a little more hell, except her mother wasn’t home. The Sunday paper was still on the porch.
“Afraid her mother might be sick or something, Susan let herself inside. She had a key. Once there, she found the place looked like it had been ransacked. Instead of calling us, she climbed right back into her car and drove out to Gleeson and proceeded to raise more hell, this time with Farley Adams.”
“Her mother’s boyfriend,” Joanna supplied.
“Right,” Frank responded, “although that’s not what Susan Jenkins called him. Scumbag, for one. Gold digger, for another, along with a few other choice expressions that shouldn’t be repeated in mixed company. I tell you, that woman’s a piece of work!”
“You were there?”
“For part of it. He told her to leave-he lives in a motile home parked at Alice Rogers’ mining claim on Outlaw Mountain. When Susan refused to leave, he called for reinforcements. After what happened at the restaurant earlier, I didn’t waste any time getting there. She was still raising holy hell with the man when I drove up. That’s when she told me her mother was missing. I asked Susan if she suspected foul play, and the woman fell all apart on me. She went to pieces-hyperventilating and the whole nine yards. I ended up having to call her husband to come drive her home. The thing that really corks me is that Clete Rogers is probably right on this one-I should have arrested her to begin with.”
“Where is she now?”
“Back home in Sierra Vista. Once I unloaded her, I went back to Tombstone and checked out the mother’s house myself. And she’s right. It looks as though the mother has disappeared, all right. At least she didn’t come home overnight. Her car’s gone. Somebody has ripped through the old woman’s house and torn it to pieces, although there’s no way to tell what, if anything, is missing.”
“Did you have a chance to talk to the boyfriend?” Joanna asked.
“A little. Not that much because, like I said, I had my hands full with this Jenkins woman. Then, after that, I was helping with the car wreck.”
“What did Farley Adams have to say?” Joanna asked.
“He claims the last time he saw Alice was when she came out to his place yesterday morning. According to him, she planned on leaving home early in the afternoon because she had some errands to run in Sierra Vista before she was due at the Jenkins’ place for dinner. Adams claims he hasn’t seen or heard from her since. He says that he wasn’t particularly concerned about that-about not seeing her earlier this morning-because he expected to see her later. They were supposed to have dinner together tonight.”
“What time did you say Alice left her daughter’s house last night?”
“About eight-thirty. Susan says she usually takes the Charleston Road back and forth to Tombstone.”
Charleston Road, named after a long-gone mining town near the San Pedro River, was a short cut from Sierra Vista to Tombstone. It was a ribbon of cracked, curvy, up-and-down pavement. Because it crossed the San Pedro River, Charleston Road had its own share of meandering animals that sometimes came to grief with speeding vehicles.
“Had Alice Rogers been drinking?” Joanna asked.
“Some. According to the daughter, they had drinks before dinner and wine with the meal.”
“There’s not much nighttime traffic on Charleston Road,” Joanna said. “Is it possible she hit a cow or a deer? Maybe she ran off the road somewhere between Sierra Vista and Tombstone. Her car may be out of sight in a ditch or a wash. Maybe that’s why no one has spotted her.”
“I already thought of that,” Frank said. “I contacted Patrol and told them to have a deputy take a run out that way to see if he can find her. Just to be on the safe side, I also plan on filing a missing persons report. I don’t want to give His Honor the Mayor anything else to complain about.”
“Good thinking, Frank,” Joanna said. “And good job, too, although I’m not sure it’s going to help much. Clete Rogers is the kind of man who would complain if he was hanged with a new rope.”
“‘Thanks, Chief. Always glad to be of service.”
She put down the phone just as a pajama-clad Jenny emerged from the bathroom. “Was that Butch?” she asked.
“No. It was Frank Montoya calling about work. Did you want it to be Butch?”
For months now, Joanna Brady had watched from the sidelines, observing her daughter’s reaction to Butch Dixon’s increasing presence in their lives. It was a concern for Joanna, one she approached with more than a little misapprehension. She was glad Jenny seemed to like the man, but she was worried that if Butch walked away from a long-term relationship with Joanna, Jenny would end up suffering yet another devastating loss.
So far, though, things seemed to be all right. Butch Dixon was the kind of man who had been born to be a father. Since he had no children of his own, he had thrown himself into an affectionate, easy kind of relationship with Jenny. Seemingly effortlessly, he had assumed the role of a beloved uncle.
Jenny shrugged and studied her toes. “I guess I wanted it to be him,” she admitted.
“Well, Butch is on his way, but he probably won’t be here until after you go to bed.”
“Oh,” Jenny said.
Joanna waited to see if Jenny would say anything more.
When she didn’t, Joanna chose the easy way out. If Jenny wasn’t ready to talk about Butch Dixon, neither was Joanna.
“Your homework’s all done?” The motherly question was a cowardly attempt at sidestepping the issue.
Jenny sighed, flopped down on the couch beside Joanna, and snuggled in under her arm. “Of course,” she said. “You know I always do my weekend homework on Friday afternoon right after school.”
Joanna knew something was going on, even though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “Why are you worried about whether or not that was Butch?” she asked.
Jenny shrugged and said nothing.
“Come on,” Joanna urged. “Give.”
“I just need to talk to him, that’s all.”
“What about?”
